


What it's like

by GirlWithNoDragonTatoo



Category: The Boys (Comics), The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Billy Butcher teaches a lesson the hard way, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Hate, Hurt No Comfort, Violence, love to hate, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlWithNoDragonTatoo/pseuds/GirlWithNoDragonTatoo
Summary: That Billy Butcher, America's most wanted, hate lover and casual acquaintance of yours, lives up to his name, you are just about to find out painfully and bitterly personally all too soon. (Reader + Billy, plot begins sometime at the end of the first season and takes place before the events of the second season of the grandiose comic adaptation. Spoiler for the complete first season).
Relationships: Billy Butcher/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	What it's like

**Author's Note:**

> Normally this is really not my style, but in this particular case I feel that I should probably make an exception:  
> If you start reading this and you may find you generally like it (which I hope you do), please stick to this One Shot and read it to the end (when you can afford the time, anytime).  
> Because Bily Butcher may be Billy Butcher, and that usually says it all, but not everything will be like it seems at times.  
> A thousand thanks to the wonderful ConstanceTruggle for invaluable help translating this story and general motivation boost.  
> Working with you was the best!  
> Or, as Billy might put it: fucking diabolical, mate!

  


  


„If you think that you can handle this,

then you better know who you‘re messing with“

  


„Savages“- Royal Deluxe

  


  


"Long time no see, luv," he says, and before you know what's happening, he has already brutally thrust his arm against your chest, forces the door open and invades your insufficiently lit hallway.  
You stumble back several steps and tremble all over your body, rubbing your arms, which you involuntarily wrap around your shoulders.  
With his heavy boot he kicks the door back into the lock and the loud banging resounds in your skull, digging a dull hole in your intestines.  
  


He looks around for a moment, before he turns to face you again, and a strange, nameless fear seizes you.

  


_"Are you sure you're all right?" You looked skeptically_ _at your colleague’s face_ _._

_You thought you were the only one who left the Vought Tower so late that evening, because the underground parking garage was as empty as your wallet after the Christmas shopping of the last few days._

_"Yeah. I'm fine." Dark edges under the deep-set eyes adorned the_ _ghostly_ _pale face of the otherwise so radiant, self-confident woman and she_ _nervously_ _brushed a thick strand of hair from her forehead, but didn't look directly at you._

_"Oh dear," you said lightly, when something dawned on you and her wrinkled costume caught your eye. "You haven't worked through the whole evening so far, have you? By the way, congratulations on your promotion!"_ _Rumors spread around your workplace like an unstoppable cold virus, and at least with this one you could be pretty sure that it was valid._ _"Head of digital marketing," you were honestly impressed and followed up with, "wow!“_

_No reaction._

_"Becca?", you dared to ask cautiously, whereupon suddenly life seemed to come to your counterpart._

_"No, no," she said in a rough voice and shook her head jerkily, swallowed briefly and then cleared her throat. "I, I was at Homelander's office all day, because he wanted to discuss something about his social media accounts with me...."._ _Finally she lifted her eyes and looked into yours for the first time since you met down here in the garage. "All day long. Until just now."_

_A sting went abruptly through your chest at the mention of this name of the most famous superhero ever, the head and undisputed leader of The Seven, and made you abruptly and mercilessly blank out the strange expression on Becca's face in combination with her hoarse voice, something you would hate yourself for much later on._

_But not in this moment._

_In this moment the ugly fire of envy was instantly ignited and burning in you._

_What wouldn't you give_ _for Him to take notice of you; of your ridiculous,_ _insignificant existence?_

_Just_ _once!_

_Unwantedly and without you being able to prevent it, boiling, hot jealousy arose in your inner being._

_Of course, the Christmas party._

_You remembered only too well._

_Becca Butcher only had to be in the same room with Homelander – and some hundred other people – for one single moment, and she had caught his attention._

_Seemingly in the blink of an eye and with blatantly unjust ease._

_Something you've never achieved in all the time you've worked with Vought._

_Maybe three or four times you had the chance to meet Him in the course of your marketing campaign for the penultimate superhero comic, once He even reached out for the rough drafts of your pen, but only to look at the drawings._

_Your heart was beating up to your neck, you had forgotten to breathe and in your head the question was already forming feverishly how you could ask Him for a personal autograph without looking like a gibbering idiot before Him._

_Or your direct superior, who stood next to you._

_"Horrible," He had said and crumpled the paper in his fist into an absurdly small, solid ball, and threw it at your and Steve- the art director's - feet._

_"I sound like an underprivileged, so-called-moderator at the Alcoholics Anonymous, reciting cheap calendar phrases."_

_At that moment, your heart stopped beating for a moment before it pounded your chest all the harder again._

_You were secretly afraid of criticism, a worry that had kept you awake half the night, because no comic, no drawing, and especially no words that were put in His mouth could come close to His sublimity, to reality, and He was sublime without a doubt anyway; they had just delivered junk, yes, that's how it must have been._

_He came very close to your boss, ignored you completely._

_"Am I a fucking AA, Steve?"_

  


_If you had taken just a single moment, sometime after that, to replay and rethink this scene in your mind, it would have been much harder for you on that frosty winter's evening to just turn your back on your colleague._

_Instead, you had wrapped yourself in the cold cloak of rejection to let every further word bounce off you like an invisible protective armor._

_You should have been happy for Becca, who had received so much unexpected and undeserved attention from Homelander - after all, the holidays were just around the corner - but instead you distanced yourself from her both inwardly and outwardly._

_"How nice for you," you said icily, and turned up the collar of your brown suede coat a little higher, stepping back a few steps. "But now I have to go. I'll see you around."_

_And with these words you had simply turned around, closed your own eyes to the visible, painful confusion in hers and stomped energetically to your ancient Ford fiesta._

_Pictures had suddenly shot into your head, absurdly enough of Becca's husband at the Christmas party, how he had gently brushed her hair back and the intimacy of this tender gesture almost made you cry._

_First a stunningly charismatic husband, outrageously handsome from top to toe, and then Homelander, who had courted Rebecca Saunders Buchter so completely undeservedly – even it was only briefly._

_And Becca, how she had beamed at that moment._

_Yes, you would still feel burning hatred in you much later, whenever you should think back to that scene._

_For you, for Homelander and for Becca's husband._

_Billy Butcher._

  


You've watched all the news of the last few days, sucked every piece of news into your brain with stunned horror and greedy, almost perverse fascination, until last night at about half past two you thought your skull would burst like an overripe plum, which you smashed against the wall.

Not for nothing have you been calling in sick since yesterday, meanwhile almost crazy with worry about this particular man, over whom people were tearing their mouths apart with relish on television.

Hate lover and casual acquaintance on your part, and of whom you have not heard anything for months.

The man who has just forcibly gained access to your apartment.

Billy Butcher.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Your voice sounds rough and hoarse with fear and tension.

The last time you met Billy was quite a while ago, you could look this day up in your calendar, since you naively put this encounter in writing once again with even more naive, pitiful hopes.

Just like your first encounter after Becca's sudden death.

  


_A tiny little shop on 5th Avenue, you wanted to pick up the evening edition of the New York Times along with a pack of peanut butter M &M's, your favorites at the time._

_You could eat shit loads of that stuff._

_Your unhealthy preference for cheap chocolate was not obvious, though, because you adhered to a strict credo: one bar a day and nothing else but a tomato bread and a handful of grapes, and the scales did not mutate overnight to public enemy number one._

_The rest of the vitamins and trace elements came in pills, of course, because you simply lacked the time for healthy cooking._

_Real first world problems and mortification - Deluxe._

_Your true specialty, but only you, your TV and your laptop knew about it and you made sure it stayed that way._

_When you took out your wallet in the aforementioned store, your cell phone fell out of the neatly designed, impractical Gucci handbag, which was far too small and had hardly any room for all your stuff, but which you just couldn't resist buying from your first paycheck from Vought._

_Back then when you thought that you could score points with the right accessories in addition to your services, you soon would become one of them (joke was on you)._

_When you tried to pick your wallet up from the floor, you collided with a man from behind who immediately expressed his displeasure about your duskiness in a gruff and inappropriately aggressive manner._

_You straightened up with a bright red head, muttering an instant apology and looked the man in the face; something in the back of your head_ _reminded_ _you that he looked familiar_ _._

_Then the penny already dropped, although at first you did not want to believe your eyes._

_Rebecca Butcher's husband had changed, changed insanely - he had grown a thick beard and deep resentment and even deeper bitterness had dug into his features, but it were his eyes that you recognized him by._

_Even though they had become hard and dark shadows lay over them like dirty smears, you would have recognized them everywhere._

_So dark that they looked almost black and so intense that a single glance from them got under your skin, back then, at the Christmas party._

_Just like that day, although it had been an eternity since you had last seen him._

_"William?", you asked and blinked a few times in amazement. "Billy- Billy Butcher?"_

_"Should I know you?", he shot back unkindly instead of an answer, and your smile froze on your lips as he stood up to his full, threatening size, gazing at your figure with angry disinterest and even less enthusiasm. "Did we perhaps fuck when we were stoned?" He snorted disparagingly. "If so, I'm afraid I can't remember your face, luv, let alone your name, no offense."_

_He grabbed a bottle of pipe cleaner from the shelf to his right and pointed his chin in your direction. "Now be so good as to stop busting my balls and get out of my fucking way."_

_His words had wounded you more than a stab in your guts could have done at that moment._

_Involuntarily, your cell phone slipped away again, fell to the ground, clattering quietly with your outrageously expensive, useless designer bag._

_Energetically you blinked repeatedly, this time to push back the hot, rising tears._

_"No, God no, me"- you took a deep breath, pushed your unruly hair under your dark wool cap behind your already flaming red, burning ears in an attempt to gather yourself, broke off eye contact with him._

_You didn't want to expose yourself any further to this man, whom you had once secretly envied your colleague for in the truest sense of the word and who now stabbed around with words like butcher's knives, murderously and purposefully._

_"Becca and I," you started again and reached for your utensils scattered on the dirty linoleum tile, grabed them hectically up from the floor before you stood up again "we are - we were colleagues. At Vought."_

_Deeply ashamed, you forced yourself to look him in the face again. "She introduced us briefly at the Christmas party at the Tower, two or three years ago?"_

_His forehead furrowed into steep folds before a sudden flash of lightning ghostly illuminated those black-looking eyes for a split second, that you mistakenly took as interest in your person, before they once again resembled bottomless abysses._

_"At Vought?," he asked, and now he also bent down to reach for a pen you had overlooked, gave it back to you after a quick glance._

_Vought stood on it in the typical big, no-frills letters._

_Clean, as you professional designers like to_ _say_ _in_ _pretentious_ _meetings to set yourselves apart from the common folk._

_"And you still work_ _for the company_ _?" His voice had something subliminally lurking under the suddenly eagerly friendly tone, but you couldn't grasp it at that moment._

_"Uh, yes, that's right."_

_And even though you knew deep inside that he still didn't remember shit about you, you went on with a blazing, seldom stupid hope, instead of sending the impudent, fake asshole to hell; you introduced yourself again with your full name._

_He paused perhaps a second before responding as if on cue._

_"Of course!" A broad grin followed, and he slapped his flat hand against his forehead. "Now I remember again. Who could forget such a lively little redhead, could they?"_

_He had leaned forward a little, brushing a stray curl of hair from your temple with a feather-light touch that seemed absurdly delicate, in stark contrast to all his behavior not even two minutes ago._

_The fact that he alluded to your appearance and had come so close to you made you strangely nervous and at the same time flattered you in an inappropriate and unwise manner, as you well knew._

_"You look good," he added, and you smiled somewhat tortured._

_"How about," he said, confidentially putting his arm around your shoulder, holding you tighter than decency dictated, "if you and I sip another after-work cocktail in some bar and you tell me a little bit about your work at Vought?“ Still with his arm wrapped around you, he directed you single-mindedly towards the cash register, while he put the pipe cleaner down somewhere without looking. "You're certainly invited, darling."_

_You knew there was something wrong with this remarkable change of mood, but it had been so long since a man had paid you a compliment not related to your job that you jumped at his offer like a teetotaller at the first beer in years - pitifully starved and beyond good and evil._

_A hopeless case, as your mother used to say._

  


"What are you doing here?", you repeat the question you asked a few seconds ago,  while the man still looks hectically around your hallway and then, without a word or even an explanation, runs straight to the living room door, pushing it open with a jerk.

Blood-red rage boils up in your bowels when Billy Butcher, without permission, invades your apartment, your privacy and tears you out of your fearful paralysis.

Hectically you rush after him, pausing briefly when the kitchen door appears in the corner of your eye and the image of a knife pops up in your head, which would certainly be to your advantage in this unpleasant, more than just latently threatening situation.

After another second of hesitation, the veto turns out in favor of the cold steel and you rush into the kitchen, pulling the sharpest and longest blade out of the knife block before rushing from the hallway into your living room where Billy is already pulling down all the shutters and just pulling the last curtain after a last look outside.

"Hey!", you shout once more and build yourself up in the middle of the room with the knife in your hand. "What the hell are you fucking doing here? I didn't bid you in, let alone invite you!"

Jerkily he turns around and looks at the carving knife in your hand with a frown.

"Careful with that knife, sweetheart, or someone in here might get to hurt."

  


Ignoring this indirect threat, you take a courageous step even closer in his direction.

He should not, under any circumstances, realize that he scares the hell out of you with his entire appearance, which fortunately is outflanked and put in its place by your burning anger.

Three months.

For three damned months he  wasn’t heard from again, not a word, not a phone call, not a text message, nothing. 

Absolutely nothing.

And now this disgusting performance,  where he whirls like a tornado through your own  home , generally behaving as if the apartment belongs to him, including the block of houses that belongs to it.

"What.Do.You.Do. Here", you bite off every single word with your teeth and spit another "son of a bitch?" in front of his feet.

"Oi!", he says in feigned indignation. "Is that how you greet an old friend?" Exaggeratedly theatrical, he touches his chest. "That hurts, luv, deep down here. You know, after all we've..."

"We are not friends", you interrupt him and your heart hammers painfully against your ribs. "We're not even acquaintances, Billy! From the beginning I was just a quick little trick for you to work off your frustration!" Only now do you realize how good it feels to let your heart breathe and snort. "Do you know how many times I tried to call you, to reach you, after you just kept running off like a thief in the middle of the night? You never, never, never answered my calls or texts!"

You think of all the news broadcasts of the last few days and how a brick of fear has made itself comfortable in your acid stomach ever since.

"I've been trying to reach you for days now! And then suddenly you just show up at my door unannounced and forcefully break the place down! But that's enough, Billy! Now I'm just finally fed up with you! So get out of here before I call the police!"

"Hey," he says and spreads his arms in a big-nosed generous gesture. "I'm a very busy man, sweetheart, but when I'm not running from fucked-up, crazy supes for my own survival, I'm happy to give you a good going over, but right now -"

He does not get any further.

Like a fury you are  on him in a single leap and slap him so hard across the face that your palm burns.

That also felt good.

"I'm not one of your discarded hookers, Billy," you hiss and feel the blood shoot fire-red into your face in spite of the images that inappropriately shoot through your head from your last encounter, eye to eye with a man who took you harder in bed than anybody else ever has before.

Or afterwards.

It had been frightening, exhausting, grueling, almost abnormal and horribly exciting.

Already after the first night you knew that you were addicted.

And like any rational person after a supposed slip, you had tried to avoid your addiction, which had actually not been difficult.

Because Billy Butcher came and went in and out of your house only sporadically in the last few years, and only to his own taste.

Two things were constantly returning with him on each of his visits:

Good sex and Vought.

Again and again Vought.

The conversations about your workplace soon got on your nerves.

Including the confused but vehement hints of malicious conspiracies there.

  


"What the hell is wrong with you?" His face darkens noticeably under your fiery red handprint and in the next second he knocks the knife out of your hand, seemingly without any effort.

Instinctively you retreat.

Despite his anything but sensitive nature, he has never gotten physical with you until this day and his behavior shocks you deeply, even though you admittedly just slapped him, the first time in your life you had ever used violence.

Nevertheless- first his violent intrusion into your apartment and now this.

He bends down briefly and picks up your best and only means of self-defense in his right hand.

"Are you having your fucking period, your bloody PMS, or why are you acting like a cunt right now? I'm here because I need help, goddamn it!"

Involuntarily you clench your fists, but sensibly you bring some safety distance between you.

"And you come to me?" You laugh hysterically, it sounds like a badly disguised, suppressed sobbing. "To me, of all people? I saw the news!" Helpless with rage you shake your head. "You're a wanted man, Billy Butcher, and I won't hesitate to call the cops if you don't get out of here right now!"

In a fit of dangerous mental derangement, you grab a sofa cushion and throw it in his direction.

"Go on, get out of here!" A second cushion flies in his direction, bouncing off his upper body with force. "Get lost! You are so good at that!"

  


With only a few long steps he stands in front of you and pushes you with force against the next wall.

The pain shoots hot along your spine and before you can even react, he grabs your neck and presses the knife against your throat without hesitation.

You freeze on the spot.

"Now shut the fuck up and listen to me for one second if you can, love.“

He bends his head down and is now so close to you that you feel his snorting hot breath on the tip of your nose, your heated cheeks.

"Your fucking employer is nothing more than a club of unscrupulous, disgustingly rich cunts and your magical Seven is nothing more than rotten, dirty lab rats." He loosens his grip a little, but the blade on your skin doesn't give an inch. "And if you had even a tiny bit of balls, you would have gotten into Voughst's labs ages ago, as I told you over and over again, and finally convinced yourself!"

  


Tears of despair at the absurdity of your present situation shoot out of your eyes in a hot gush.

Again and again the same old story, the same paranoia as you have known for years.

Again and again Billy, how he tried to pressure you to break into your own employer.

  


Deeply and tremblingly you take a breath in an effort to keep calm again.

One of you two must at least get a halfway clear head now, otherwise this will escalate dangerously, you know that by now.

"Okay, Billy," you say as calmly as possible and swallow heavily against the cold steel at your throat. "Okay. You-you're welcome to tell me your version of the story, tell me what really happened, but please," your voice takes on an imploring tone, there's nothing you can do about it, "put that knife away now, okay? You scare the shit out of me, Billy! Please!"

You look him in the face pleadingly, and very slowly the pressure of the blade on your naked skin subsides.

After another pounding heartbeat his hand with the knife sinks down and he takes a step back, turns away from you.

You breathe in shakily and close your eyes for a moment, claw your hands behind your back into the white plaster of your living room wall. Feel the fine grain and the coolness as Billy slowly walks up and down like an irritated predator.

"Okay", you say softly and open your eyelids again. "Okay."

You force yourself to look in his direction again. "What happened, Billy? What the fuck are you in this time?"

You're seriously interested in the answer.

  


Jerkily, he turns his head, stops abruptly.

"What happened, you want to know? I was so close to getting this whole fucking bunch of cunts by their balls, and now fucking Homelander did everything he could to take me apart piece by piece and denounce me! That's what's up!"

  


Slowly you brace yourself from the wall with your palms and walk towards him.

After a short hesitation only, you reach out for his arm, squeeze it gently, soothingly.

Actually, you should throw him out of your apartment in a high arch, that‘s clear to you.

If someone has seen him here and has informed the police - you don't want to imagine the trouble you are in.

Instead, it seems absurd that you still seem to be looking for his proximity.

Still.

A hopeless case.

"What is it with you and Homelander?", you honestly want to know. "Where does all this hatred for him come from? All he does is try to make this world a tiny bit better every damn day, and you-"

  


With a jerk, he rips himself from your gentle grip and looms threateningly over you.

You  involuntarily retreat from  him once more.

  


"Better? _Better_ _?_ " With a brutal movement he rams the knife into your wooden coffee table and, startled, you make a leap to the side.

Aggressively he rakes his hand over his forehead and hair, looks you in the face again. "Do you still believe that fucking PR shit? Do you really?"

His voice is hard, but surprisingly still at room volume.

Maybe that's why he scares you all the more, that flaring, burning hatred in his eyes.

"God, sweetheart, I always thought you were smarter than that under your stupid, naive, fuck-me Lolita act. You want to know what happened?"

  


He takes a step towards you and grabs your narrow shoulders so hard that it hurts, you can't escape his grip.

"I'll tell you what happened. That fucking bastard killed my Becca. You know why my wife is dead? She killed herself! Homelander raped her, and she killed herself afterwards!" He shakes you hard for a moment. "Do you understand? He killed her!"

  


Horror runs through all your limbs, paralyzing you for an endlessly horrible moment.

  


Once more on this day, the memory of that bitterly cold winter evening in Vouhts underground garage overcomes you, but you push it away with all your might.

Deep and shaky you take another breath, fighting your way out of your numbness with claws and teeth, slowly but successfully.

You reach for Billly's hands, pull them off your shoulders and repeatedly retreat from him.

Your voice is the first thing you find again.

"This can't, this can't be," you stutter awkwardly, outrageously horrified at this shattering accusation, shaking your head vehemently now.

"Homelander would never, ever do something like this to a woman, never! Countless, millions of women adore him, idolize him, yes, but he would never use that to his advantage, let alone do anything so horrible!“ You continue wringing your hands, not knowing whom you really want to convince with your fiery appeal. "He is one of the good guys, the head of The Seven, for God's sake! He is - he stands for the good in man, of every man, and -"

  


"He's a rotten, dirty, fucking rapist," Billy interrupts you in a dangerously low voice and his angry index finger stabs up into the air like a dagger right in front of your nose. "Nothing else. Welcome to reality, Sleeping Beauty. It's about fucking time you opened your fucking eyes, sweetheart."

  


You feel how everything threatens to slip away from you, that you have clung on so desperately to for the last few years, and for a moment you get so dizzy that you think you're going to throw up.

In a world that is on the verge of blowing itself up every damn moment of every day, you don't want to let go of the only shining beacon of hope, you cling desperately to it as a child to its favorite toy.

One that is about to discharged, just like that, from one moment to the next.

And even though the scratches and dents are obvious, you decide to continue walking around with a blind eye.

Childish, naive.

Criminally naive.

  


"I - I don't believe you!" There is a shrill, hysterical undertone in your voice, but that doesn't matter to you.

You refuse to acknowledge this, Billy's truth, period.

Some things are just too horrible to be believed, to be wanted to be believed.

"I just don't believe that," you repeat vehemently. "I saw Homelander and Becca together at the Christmas party back then," it gushes out of you, ready to jump right in and help the world's most famous and powerful superhero (as if He needed your help) and, without realizing, you talking yourself into serious trouble. 

"Homelander was nothing but friendly and extremely courteous to you, especially to Becca and  she , she jumped right in and flirted with him right away-“

  


That's as far as you get.

  


Billy rams his hand into your throat with force, immediately squeezes it mercilessly.

  


"Don't you ever dare accuse my wife of anything like that again, bitch! Are you suggesting that she got herself raped because she was making eyes at that fucking supe cunt?“ His hot breath blows in your face as a hateful snort. "Is this what solidarity among you women looks like? No wonder you cunts have never had a say on this fucking planet."

Desperately you try to shake your head, panic-stricken you reach for his hand, you can't breathe.

"Are you implying," he continues completely unmoved by your ridiculously useless attempts at liberation, bringing his face very close to yours, "she would have asked the fucking son of a bitch for this? Asked him to fuck her against her will, to rape her just because he is so fucking good-looking? Answer me!"

He loosens his iron grip just enough so that you can suck some oxygen back into your windpipe with a desperate grunt.

"Billy, I never- never thought or said anything like that," you croak in a desperate, unnaturally rough voice, "of course I don't think Becca wanted to be raped by homelander, but-"

"No buts, cunt!"

Immediately, his fingers press mercilessly again, even harder than before and your heart hammers in sudden mortal fear against your chest like a panicked bird fluttering up its cage bars, eye to eye with the overpowering cat, which is about to ram the deadly claws through the open cage door into its plumage.

  


"You know what?" Suddenly his fingers finally come off your neck. "I'm just going to show you something now, sweetheart, so you realize what a blatant fucking bullshit you just said."

  


With a jerk, he lets go of you and before you can even flinch in panic, he grabs your arm in a vice-like grip and pulls you down the hall.

You stumble and sprawl to your knees, but Billy pulls you mercilessly on, dragging you all the way into your bedroom.

With his heavy boots he kicks the door  open  and  shoves you so brutally  onto your bed that you bounce off the mattress.

Then he is already above you and reflexively you lash out like a savage, wanting to defend yourself, but he swings out and his fist hits you like a hammer blow against your chin.

Instinctively you pull your hands over your head in pain and roll yourself together, wanting to make yourself as small as possible to give him hardly any room to attack, while he jerkily gets rid of his coat, simply lets it fall to the ground, loosens the belt buckle and unbuttons his pants without hesitation.

The word "no" keeps pounding in your head like a jackhammer against your painfully booming skull and everything seems completely surreal to you.

  


No, no, no!

It can't be, it can't be!

What happened here in this mad moment?

Had Billy gone insane?

  


This is not Billy Butcher, not the man you once thought you knew.

The man you desperately wanted to share your bed with whenever he, in his boundless goodness, had sporadically appeared at your house and mercilessly exploited your longing for true, genuine intimacy for his own pleasure, although you, too, had gotten your money's worth every time.

You look for your cell phone on the bedside table and remember in scorching desperation that you left it in the living room.

"Learning by doing," he says hatefully and bends down to you busily, grabs your feet and tears your legs apart lengthwise, "so much time must be allowed!“

You try to kick around, to hit him again, and this time his fist hits your abdomen.

The punch lets any air escape from you and you literally see stars in your blackening field of vision.

"Weren't you as horny as a ratty bitch every time I showed up with you in your miserable life?," he asks, tearing his shirt over his head with a jerk, throwing it to the side. "Didn't you already have the broth souping down your panties and legs every time I grabbed your ass? You couldn't wait to get fucked by me."

Hot tears of pain and shame shoot out of your eyes, and you desperately shake your head. "Please Billy," you cry, "stop! Listen a-"

He grabs you so tightly by your hair that your whole scalp is on fire, ablaze.

"So why so unruly now, sweetheart?" His biting voice drips with abysmal contempt. "You asked for it, you shall have it. You wanted it, you’ll get it!"

"No!", you burst out in sheer panic as he lunges at you, tears your thin leggings and panties with a jerk, buries your body under his weight.

Abruptly he presses himself on his elbows and then brutally rams two fingers into you.

An insane, burning pain wafts through your maltreated abdomen and you know that you have never before been so cruelly hurt and mistreated in your life, physically or emotionally.

Tormented you sob loudly, try with all your strength to push him away from you and down, but his elbow goes up and then his arm above your throat squeezes the air out of you again.

"Please don't, Bil-! S-o-p!", you gurgle pathetically, but he doesn't even seem to notice.

"Why so frigid all of a sudden, dearest?" His fingers pierce mercilessly deeper into you and the pain drives a hot gush of biting salt water out of your eyes.

"Maybe you'll like it better once I ram my cock into your worthless hole, what do ya think? Just picture Homelanders face while I fuck you against your will!"

"No," you sob desperately as you try to free yourself from him, writhing your body away from under him, but only managing to lift his arm off your neck. "No, no, no, please don't, Billy," you cry and the snot runs down your face with bitter tears "please don't, don't hurt me, don't hurt me, please, please stop, please stop, please stop!”

Jerkily he pulls his hand back, but immediately grabs your hips and pulls you a good deal lower under him.

And although you repeatedly gasp in pain and fear, in this moment white-hot hatred overcomes you, which, together with instinct and your will to survive, takes control and gives you undreamt-of strength.

You clench your hands and beat him like a madwoman with your fists, stopping him for maybe two seconds second, but then Billy strikes out again and a sledgehammer hits the left side of your face.

It crunches and you can taste blood.

Silently whimpering you still lie under him, dazed and close to fainting.

You feel sick, your body just one big pain and you know in this moment irrevocably that you are lost.

No one would come and save you from this madman.

Nobody will come.

  


You are all alone.

  


"This is what it feels like to be raped!"

His hot breath scorches your auditory canal, your wet face like all hellfire and you squeeze your eyes together, arm yourself for the unbearable, when all of a sudden, it stops.

Completely and abruptly.

You hold your breath, not daring to breathe further or even to open your eyelids again.

Shaking all over your body like a junkie on cold turkey, you continue to feel him above you, his massive body on yours and you wait for the inevitable.

  


The dagger -, the deathblow.

  


"That's what it feels like to be raped," he repeats in a dangerously calm voice, quieter this time and then suddenly rises from you.

  


Noisily he climbs into his clothes, while the pain, the shame and infinite relief run unchecked in hot saltwater rivers down your cheeks, digging into your skin, corrosive like acid.

  


"Now you've only just begun to experience how Becca must have felt.” His voice is relentless, hard and so full of the hatred he had just taken out on you that it shakes your whole body.

"So don't you ever open your fucking mouth  about my wife again  when it comes to that dirty, perverted, fucking super  cunt! "

  


You squeeze your eyelids so tightly that it hurts, while you hear him calmly put his coat back on.

Not even twenty seconds later he has disappeared from your bedroom and steps out into your hallway.

Leaving you without a single, further word as a pile of pathetic misery on your rumpled bed.  
  


_  
_

_This is what it feels like to be raped._

  


  
You still hold your breath, don't dare to move a single muscle, and listen with all your strained concentration to his steps, which only move away agonizingly slowly.  
Or at least that's how it seems to you.  
But no matter how hard you listen, you just can’t hear him leaving your apartment.  
  
Instead, you hear him push open your kitchen door, a muffled rumble, then the refrigerator door is shut again and you can hear the soft, characteristic hissing of a bottle opener, the gentle clicking of glass on glass.  
Still pathetically trembling, you abruptly climb off your bed and sneak across the bedroom on weak legs, peeking through the crack of the door into your hallway.  
Billy just comes out of your kitchen with two bottles of beer and walks straight to your living room.  
Not a minute later you can hear your TV on.  
The news, a late night show, advertising, the news again.  
  


Which report about the wanted man who is just sitting right in your fucking living room.  
  


You wait a few more endless, agonizing minutes, listen to the muffled voices of the TV.

Pure terror overcomes you, when you realize all of a sudden, that Billy plans to stay tonight, obviously.  
This cruel realization robs you of your last bit of strength and, exhausted to death, you slide down the wall with your back, biting your trembling fist so as not to make a sound of your suffocated sobbing.  
Tear-blind, you reach out and lock the door, then bury your face between your arms and cry unrestrainedly.  
Your crying soon turns into a choking, but you force the bitter bile together with the lingering taste of blood in your mouth down your throat again.  
You don't dare to leave the bedroom to throw up into your toilet as long as Billy is still here in your apartment, even if your life would depend on it.  
Again and again you have to strongly admonish yourself to finally get a grip and pull yourself together.  
Eventually it's enough to stumble a few steps to reach your closet in the corner.

  


You avoid your bed like a bum a homeless shelter.  
  


With trembling hands you open the old-fashioned, dark brown wooden door -cherry wood, as you were told in the antique store- and pluck out the oldest sweatpants and the widest sweater from the darkest depths.  
Hectically you put on the clothes without first taking off your torn leggings or your t-shirt.  
Still, you still feel defenseless, naked, at the mercy of others.

_His’._  


You take a shaky breath and then squeeze yourself on the floor between your fully hung hangers.  
You leave a tiny gap open to breathe better.  
With your legs pulled against your body, you wrap your arms around your raised knees and are shaken by another crying fit.  
  


But at some point you actually must have fallen asleep.  
  


Because the faint light of the morning sun from outside wakes you up from terrible, recurring nightmares, from which you were always startled, completely disoriented.  
  


Now you are rising on limbs heavy with lead, and every single bone hurts you.  
  


Your face hurts unbearably, and when you touch it carefully, you flinch again.  
It feels as if you were palpating a bloated baseball bat with your hand, so you let it go after a second.  
Desperately you eavesdrop on your door like last night, paying attention to the slightest noise.  
You just don't know for sure if Billy has already left your apartment again, though you devoutly pray for it.

But after a few endless minutes you can't stand it anymore.  
You have to go to the bathroom, relieve yourself, and soon.  
So you finally turn the key around as silently as possible, after listening one more time and then carefully open the bedroom door.  
  
"Well, well, well."  
  
His voice makes you jump abruptly and your heart skips a beat before it hammers against your chest with sudden force.  
The moment you’ve set foot in your hallway, Billy has appeared from your kitchen door, and now you are standing here.  
Helpless and trembling all over your body.  
  


You freeze like a rabbit in the headlights.  
  


"There she is", Billy says.

He looks absurdly well rested to you, and his voice sounds jovial and so disgustingly patronizing that your stomach turns over, you want to puke in front of his feet, no, in his face.

Instead you do nothing, can't even activate a single muscle for a pathetic escape back to the bedroom.  
  
"Good morning, sunshine." He takes a good look at you. "You’re a little pale around the nose, sweetheart. Bad night?"  
With not one word does he mention the bruises on your face that he inflicted on you last night, and which must be obvious.

He calmly buttons up his coat and puts up his collar while he watches you trembling, unmoved.  
"Coffee is in the kitchen. I took the liberty of serving myself as long as you were -say - unavailable.”  


Still not a single muscle in your body obeys you, except your vocal chords.  
"Fuck you, Billy."

Your voice sounds horribly rough and hoarse, strange to your own ears, but it's certainly been loud enough that he heard you.

"Well then," he replies, as if you had just said something exceedingly friendly. "Nice of you to help me out and letting me crash, darlin’."

That outrageous, fucking impudence is enough to make you speechless again.

With your mouth slightly open and eyes burning with hatred you stare at him, throwing knives in your gaze.

Billy walks to your apartment door, grabs the handle and then pauses briefly to turn his head, looks at your face one last time.

  


“See you around, luv.”  
  



End file.
